It's Complicated
by RipredtheGnawer
Summary: "This is the shining new future, what they've all been waiting for, and now that it's here it's not at all what she imagined." Johanna. Rated T because it's about the Games, after all.


**A/N: I wrote this for English class. We had a set of vocab words to incorporate into writing, and my teacher let me do FF for the assignment. She's the best!**

**I actually do think that this is a plausible pairing, but for my own reasons, I chose not to have any real romance in the one-shot.**

**Song is "I Wish I Was the Moon Tonight" by Neko Case. She has an amazing voice. I imagine that Katniss sounds something like her.**

**Please R&R!**

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><p><em>Chimney falls and lovers blaze, thought that I was young.<em>

_Now I've freezing hands and bloodless veins,_

_As numb as I've become._

It's as if she's gone three years back in time to age nineteen as she walks out of the room in the underground city, so far from where she was the first time around.

_Your cousin's not afraid of me, are you, gorgeous?_

But she's afraid of him, afraid of herself, and above all, afraid that – just like three years ago – this will end with a coffin.

And then, after too many deaths to count, the war's over and she's being shipped off to District 2. And, by some miracle, he's dislocated there as well. He's broken inside, but it's him, and that's what really matters.

He expects her to be supercilious. Or maybe not, but it's hard for her to break the habit anyways. Too much time has been spent protecting herself from the world, except now there's nothing to fear.

She's still afraid, though, because there are so many ways to be hurt. She's got the scars to prove it, and so does he. There are mental wounds from the Games and the war. There are physical wounds from, once again, the Games and the war, and then just desultory ones from everyday life. There are emotional wounds from – how did you guess it? – The Games and the war, plus years of nobody caring. So many scars that she wonders how anybody's in one piece.

_I'm so tired,_

_I wish I was the moon tonight._

As the months pass and they bump into each other every so often, she manages to live with the fact that he's still wishing for that infuriating birdie girl from 12. It's not an easy way to survive, second-best forever, but she gets by, albeit with an aching heart. They're two similar people, living two similar lives, in the same world. It seems to her that it would be _so easy_ to get together and heal each other. They even live in the same part of town. Except that she knows he's sane, and she's… well… _not_.

When she stops to consider this fact – it's not often – she knows in the thumping thing in her chest that it all started at fifteen, that summer's day that she first began to die. And that's why she's unsure whether she can ever have a future with him. Because if you face the facts, she's the one who's been through the Games. Not him. And she's been through them twice. So there.

And what evidence does she have, anyways, that he even cares about her? When did he ever give her anything more than a glare? If she's honest with herself, she knows the answer is none, never. Unless you count the **surreal** laughing look at Finn's wedding.

She's sure he doesn't.

_Last night I dreamt I'd forgotten my name_

'_Cause I'd sold my soul,_

_But I woke just the same._

She'd give anything for him to just disappear. To vanish into thin air like a dream. But he's all too real, and he's going nowhere, and neither is she. They're both trapped like hummingbirds in nets, and unfortunately, hers is the same cage as his. It's like one of those snares that he made with his perfect, deft, bomb-designing hands.

If he would go away, she'd be able to breathe freely, she tells herself. And he'd be in less danger. Because even though the war's over and she's "totally safe," it still doesn't feel that way. So much time has passed with threats over her head, being **ravaged** again and again by what she thought was harmless, that she'll never take any reassurance seriously. She just can't get over the fear of the death of those she cares for. They're all gone – all except one – and it's obvious to her who's going to be next.

_I'm so lonely,_

_I wish I was the moon tonight._

But if he's gone, then she'll fall apart. She really will. There won't be anyone left to hold out for, to wait for, to anticipate. She's too tough, too resilient, too rock-solid to love, but love she does, and it's the only thing she still can say is hers. The government-issued house and clothes most definitely aren't.

It's just so difficult, being as she is. He is her constant, the one thing that will always be there, and yet she can't convince herself that this is love. Years ago, when she thought that there might be some semblance of pity in the world and it was **inexorably** snatched away – that's the last time she loved anyone. So what's she doing thinking these thoughts?

_God blessed me, I'm a free man with no place free to go._

_Paralyzed and collared-tight,_

_No pills for what I fear._

She sees it in his eyes, that he's the same as her in this respect. That he's struggling like a baby to find a place in this new world, where no one really cares that they've been tortured and starved, because now _everyone's equal_ and this is the shining new future, what they've all been waiting for, and now that it's here it's not at all what she imagined.

They offer medications, therapy, ways to overcome her paranoia and flashbacks. To escape from the trigger-happy monsters who said they'd keep her safe. But nothing makes a difference. She's been melded into her current form, like a fossil, and just as dead.

_This is crazy,_

_I wish I was the moon tonight._

Why's she still alive? That's the real question. Why, when so many others are gone, is she still hanging around? And why does no one seem to notice how much it hurts to watch the rest of the world move on?

It's like everything she knew, thought, _was_, has left with the Games. As much as she hates to admit it, as much as it fills her with self-loathing, she is only familiar with pain and contempt and pretending to blame the world to mask the fact that she really blames herself. But there's no cause to feel those things anymore, and she's branded as _mentally disoriented_ once again, because no one's interested in helping her find new ways to live, to figure out this obscurity that has become her life. Not that she's the kind of person to accept help if it were offered.

_Chimney falls and lovers blaze, thought that I was young._

_Now I've freezing hands and bloodless veins,_

_As numb as I've become._

She realizes it was truly stupid to expect to be a different person just because she lives in a different world. It's never been that easy. There have always been too many problems to solve. Once, before the Games and before she started to fall apart, she might have given it a shot, tried to make the best of it all. But that girl, the one who smiled more and thought she might be able to fly, fell back to earth with a _bump_ when her name was called to go die so some dressed-up pigs could have fun for another year.

She's very different now. Smiling? Her face doesn't recall what that feels like. The muscles to make it happen are used for grimacing now, or baring her teeth in a snarl that sends the **tremulous** kiddies running for Mommy. Flying? What a joke. The only way she'll ever fly is in a hovercraft, and she's sworn never to go in one of those infernal things again. Too much like the ones that took her to and from the Games.

She's not a little girl anymore. She's a monster. She doesn't remember how to say good night, because all her evenings are spent alone. She can't kiss anyone's cheek without tasting blood on their dead flesh. It's a waking nightmare that fractures into bits and pieces of thought-to-be-forgotten screams.

_I'm so tired,_

_I wish I was the moon tonight._

It's almost too much to bear. Several times, she looks in the mirror and smashes it. She finds herself shaking on the floor, holding a shard to her wrist or throat, trying to muster the courage to slice. It should be easy, right? Like falling asleep, only better, because there won't be any more ghosts.

It's much harder than she thought. She never cuts deep enough, when she cuts at all, though she resolves that someday soon things will go the right way. More often than not, the neighbors hear the shattering glass and call the officials before anything happens. She's not sure why they keep doing it, since her yells as she fights the armed men ensures that no one gets any more sleep that night.

But tonight she doesn't take a peek at herself. The mirror is covered in a black cloth, a safeguard against the kids she's killed. Wouldn't want to be murdered by someone other than herself. She slips out the door, as silent as her shadow, something she picked up from living for a month with everyone out for her blood. It's almost relaxing to be so completely alert.

The thought sounds strange even to her.

She tiptoes through the alleys, keeping to the dark corners where the streetlamps don't shine. Once she crosses paths with a cat, kicking at it out of pure habit. The yellow eyes follow her reproachfully around the corner, but she doesn't look back.

It's a clear night, with no clouds and billions of stars. The little empty area on the edge of town – tall grasses and late weeds – provides the perfect place to finally collapse and cry.

_How will you know_

_If you've found me at last?_

'_Cause I'll be the one_

_Be the one_

_Be the one_

_With my heart in my lap._

The footsteps are too quiet to be heard over her choked, gulping sobs. She doesn't notice her silent companion until the worst of her fit is over and she's trembling on the ground, sweating and gasping, trying to block the hole in her chest so that she never has to reveal herself like this again. Then she realizes that she's no longer alone.

"Go away." She sounds awful, not that she cares. He doesn't move from where he's sitting beside her, and she tries to be annoyed, but another emotion tugs on her infuriatingly meek heart. "Just leave!"

She turns to look at him. His somber gray eyes are watching something away from her, and she's glad for that. She wipes her face on her sleeve and sniffs, loudly. She follows his gaze and sees that he's staring at the moon, removed, pearly, and cold on this autumn night so far away from home. For a minute, she considers leaning up against him, and then she realizes the thought and shoots to her feet like a bullet.

"Why are you here?" she demands, trying to act like her usual rude self. After all, he's just crashed her pity party.

He doesn't answer immediately, but stands and dusts off his pants before speaking. "Because I know what it's like to feel the way you do, alone." His District 12 locution reminds her just how very different they are.

"You don't know anything about me," she retorts.

"I don't," he agrees, shaking his head, and she laughs inside at how he's eating his words. And then he finally looks at her, as she's longed for him to do. "But I'd like to get to know you."

She stares at him. That feeling tugging on her heart – she thought it was relief that he was staying with her, but now she knows it's fear, the terror that everything will go wrong again. If he dies because of her, she'll have to die, too. She shakes her head in denial.

"No," she says, starting to back away towards the town. "I can't let you. It's complicated."

_I'm so tired,_

_I'm so tired,_

"Johanna!" he calls after her, trying to make her wait, but she's already running for home. And that's what's so insane about this whole thing – that this two-story house in District 2 is where she goes when she's scared, instead of the one-room shack in 7 that she was born in.

She slams the door with a bang and slides down to sit on the floor. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_ She yells at him, silently. How could he actually think that she'd open up to him like that? Why on earth would she _want_ that? And even if it seemed that she did – oh, it was completely out of line! That Hawthorne boy is entirely too presumptuous!

That's her problem. She has no idea what she wants. Is it love? Is it life? Is it death? The only person who can answer that – her – well, she's insane, isn't she? And nobody can trust the answer of a lunatic.

In bed, she dreams of better times with **sonorous** echoes of the bad stuff. Her mother, looking very alive, takes her hand and leads her to the door. She knows that her brother is behind it, but when she turns the knob there's nothing except a skull, and pine needles wrapped in bandages. She makes a grab for the bundle but finds herself holding the bones instead, and they smell like her father, who steps up behind her with Oak by his side. She drops the skull, embraces her brother in relief, searching for solace, only to wonder _whose bones?_

Like always, she wakes up screaming.

_And I wish I were the moon tonight._


End file.
